Sick Day
by Bottled.Stardust
Summary: Small drabble/one-shot. Clara's sick, so the Doctor decides to hang around and take care of her instead of just hopping over to the next Wednesday.


The Doctor knocked once, and then hovered uncomfortably outside Clara's door. Artie had said she hadn't been out all day, and seeing as it was Wednesday, that worried him. It was a few more moments before he grew impatient and pushed the door open, stepping quietly into her room. Faint rays of sunlight streamed in through the blinds, casting thin ribbons of light onto the bed. The top of Clara's head poked out from under the sheets, and she was snoring loudly. "Clara?" The Doctor asked softly. When there was no reply, he cautiously moved closer to the bed and pulled back the sheets from her face. Heat radiated off her skin so much it set the tips of his fingers tingling. He brushed the sweaty strands of hair from her face and felt her burning forehead.

At his touch, she mumbled in his sleep and then rolled over, coughing violently. It must have woken her, because her eyes flickered and she blinked up at him. "Doctor?" She asked hoarsely.

"Yes! Clara! Are you all right?" The Doctor plopped down on the bed next to her and tapped her nose softly. "You don't look too good."

Clara gave him a half-hearted glare, but she obviously wasn't feeling well enough for one of her signature dirty looks. "I don't feel too good, either," She sniffled in response. "Doctor, what are you doing in my room? People will talk, you know."

The words prompted the expected response from the Timelord, and the Doctor flushed and straightened his bowtie like he did whenever he was embarrassed. "I was just checking on you, is all."

"Relax, I know you were," She chuckled, struggling to pull herself up into more of a sitting position. As soon as her head rose off the pillow, she groaned and flopped back. "God, I feel awful," She mumbled. The Doctor reached out to gently pull the rest of her damp hair off her neck and drape it over her shoulder.

"No adventures today, eh?" He chuckled.

Clara barely seemed to have the energy to shake her head. "I'm not going to be able to get out of bed, let alone go anywhere."

"'Course not." The Doctor sat on the bedside for another few moments before his silence prompted a question from Clara.

"Well?" She asked. He glanced over in surprise.

"Well what?" He asked curiously. "What is it?"

Clara managed to wiggle up in bed and prop her head against the headrest. "Aren't you off, then? I'm not going anywhere today. Come back next Wednesday, I'll probably be better by then." She turned away sullenly and sniffled.

"Leave?" The Doctor was aghast. "Like this? No no, Miss Oswald. That's not how things work around here! I'm not going to leave you like this. Not after everything you've done for me, and I wouldn't anyways. That's not what I do." He gently reached out and brushed her cheek. Clara's gaze dropped, like it always did when the subject of Trenzalore came up. Of course they tried not to talk about it, but he needed leverage in this situation-stubborn Clara would have kept pressing the argument that he didn't need to be here to take care of her, which, of course, he did. After a few more seconds of Clara's silence, the Doctor carefully stood up. "I'm going to go make you some tea," He told her. "Don't run away while I'm gone."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Riiight," she drawled hoarsely. The Doctor could feel her sarcastic glare burning into his back as he left her room, but if she was feeling well enough to be even moderately sassy, that meant she wasn't feeling _too_ bad, and that was a good thing.

When the Doctor returned some 20 minutes later with two mugs of warm tea, Clara had managed to pull herself up, her head leaning uncomfortably against the edge of the headboard. "Hey," she croaked, cracking a small smile when he walked in. He handed her the larger mug and she took a sip, gratefully wrapping her long fingers around the heated cup. "Thanks," She said, smiling at him. "I feel better already."

The Doctor grinned. "It's made from my secret tea recipe. Well, not strictly mine..."

"What, you stole a tea recipe?" Clara sounded like she wasn't sure whether she should be amused about it or if this kind of thing was just so common with him that it didn't even affect her anymore (The Doctor personally thought she sounded more on the amused side).

"Okay, okay, well, it technically belonged to this old Chinese man I met, but I may've... brought it back with me..." He cleared his throat, embarrassed. Clara giggled.

After she had drained her mug, Clara set it down on the bedside table and yawned. "Tired again?" The Doctor asked her.

"I've been tired this whole time, Doctor," Clara muttered sleepily. "I'm sick. What do you expect?"

The Doctor gave a small nod. "Right, then," He said. "I'll let you sleep, then. See you next Wednesday?" He started to get up, but Clara leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Bye," She mumbled.

He returned the hug and kissed the top of her head. "Sleep well, Impossible Girl."


End file.
